


Blue Moon

by theremin



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, New York City, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27213448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theremin/pseuds/theremin
Summary: Shiv asks Tom to invite her estranged cousin to their wedding. Moonstruck AU lol
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 130
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Moodboard by [van1lla-v1llain](https://van1lla-v1lla1n.tumblr.com/) 😍

A short, bespectacled woman squinted out of the window and onto the street to see Tom Wambsgans walking determinedly towards the Bronx brownstone she was currently inside. 

"Viene, viene," she said, and hurried away from the window, delivered a slap to the arm of an elderly gentleman sleeping with a terrier on his lap so he jerked and stared, muttered at her. 

"He's coming?" another woman asked, tall and brunette.

"Yes, coming," the first woman confirmed. 

"Oh goodness. Alberto, he's coming!" 

Another man, with greying, curly hair and bright eyes behind round glasses emerged from the upper level and walked downstairs, rubbing his hands. When Tom opened the door, they were all staring at him. He nodded at them, took off his coat, went to sit on the chair next to the old man with the dog.

"Eh?" the old man said, breaking the silence. "Cos'a detto?"

Tom sighed and it seemed to deflate the whole room. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Tommy," the second woman said. 

Tom looked up, unable to repress a grin any longer. "She said yes."

The cheers could be heard all the way out into the street.

*

It had been a long celebration. Tom's nonna had started cooking, his stepdad Alberto had broken out the fruit liqueurs, they'd called family in Napoli and Minnesota. Tom looked at the framed photo of his father, Richard Wambsgans, which was over the staircase with other family photos. His mother caught him, walked over to him and put a hand on his arm, and he reached out to cover it.

"He would have been so proud of you," she told him.

Tom nodded. His memories of his father were few but precious. Cancer had claimed him when Tom was eight, and for a couple of years it had just been him and his hard working mom, until she'd met Alberto, a New York attorney on a Twin Cities business trip, and they'd fallen in love and he'd relocated his practice to Minneapolis. It had started a new chapter in both Tom and his mom's life. He suddenly had a flamboyant stepdad and two grateful Neopolitan stepgrandparents, who, deprived of any grandchildren of their own, lavished their attention on Tom. Suddenly he spent summer holidays in the Bronx, and the occasional family outing to Italy - where the dark-eyed girls were suitably impressed by Tom's accented but confident Italian. Moving to New York had been a natural progression when he'd finished college, and then, at the very end of his thirties, he'd met the woman of his life.

Siobhan Roy.

Shiv was beautiful, brilliant, and rich as fuck. And somehow she had agreed to become his wife. He and his mom had got a second chance at family when she'd met Alberto, and now Tom was going to add to it. And how.

"He would have liked her," Tom said. 

"Hmm," his mom said non-committally.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

"What?" Tom smiled a little unsurely.

"Your dad was just such a romantic. And I mean, I think you and Shiv have a wonderful relationship. It's mature, it's friendly. That's better."

Tom frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm just saying. It's better when you're not, you know, all head over heels. That'll drive you crazy. God bless Alberto, I wouldn't trade him for anything, but good god all the fights we've had throughout the years."

"I- I would describe us as head over heels?" Tom said. "I love her."

"I know you do, sweetie," his mom said, squeezed his arm and walked away. Tom looked after her, frowning a little, then he followed her into the kitchen.

* * *

“What do you think?” Tom asked, flexing his hand. The angles of the ring caught the light. 

“Mm. Nice,” Shiv said.

“I think maybe it's too thin. I think maybe I'd like a broader band.”

“Tom, who cares. It's just an engagement ring. Why do you even want one for yourself? When we're married you'll only wear the wedding ring, anyway. You're not... Jack Sparrow.”

“Honeyy,” Tom said. “it's not _just an engagement ring._ It's a symbol. It's a brand.”

Shiv frowned, her eyebrows flatlining. “A what?”

“Property of Shiv Roy,” Tom said, grinning, slapped his own ass. 

She shook her head. “You're crazy.”

“Crazy about you!!” Tom said in a goofy voice, hunched down and hugged her middle, leaning his head against her chest. She laughed.

“Get up, jesus christ.”

“You've told your dad, right? That you said yes?” he said, rising up to almost his full height but still holding both arms around her. She bit her lip.

“Not yet. I'm going to. It's his eightieth birthday party, we're all going. I'll tell him then.”

Tom tilted his head. “What? When are we going? Why didn't you tell me sooner, I need to get a present, I need to-” He looked around the jeweller's.

“Tom, I thought maybe I'd tell him on my own.”

Tom made a face. “You don't want me to come?”

“It's not that I don't want you to come,” Shiv said. “I just think it's better I handle this on my own. Besides, I have something I want you to do. Something important.”

“What?”

She nodded. “Let's finish up here. I'll tell you over coffee or something.”

Half an hour later they were at an upscale lunch place, a new, broad silver band gleaming on Tom's finger. 

“So you know my family is a fucking mess and a half, right?” Shiv said, tucking into a goat's cheese salad.

“Hey!” Tom said. “That's going to be _my_ freakshow of a family in a while, so watch yourself young lady, ha ha.”

Shiv rolled her eyes, ignoring him. “Half the family doesn't talk to the other half.”

“Uh huh”

“There was, well, an accident, like two decades ago. My younger cousin, Greg, was visiting us, and um, he got hurt.”

Tom chewed his sandwich. “Hurt? How?”

“Anyway, my uncle, Greg's granddad, and my aunt, his mom, they've basically not spoken to us since.” She sighed. “I just – like, a wedding seems like a really good opportunity to maybe right some old wrongs. I'd like them to come, all of them.”

Tom nodded. “We'll invite them.”

She smiled a little. “Yeah, not gonna be that easy.”

“Okay?”

“Honestly, uncle Ewan and auntie Marianne have been angry for so long I'm not sure they know how not to be. Greg... I haven't talked to him since I was a girl but I remember him as a really easy going kid. Funny. Nice.” She winced a little. “He turned thirty this year. It just kind of sucks there's this whole branch of the family we don't even talk to. Do you think maybe you could go see him? Ask him in person? Persuade him to come?”

Tom frowned. “Why me? Why don't you go talk to him yourself? I don't know the guy.”

“Exactly,” Shiv said. “you're- neutral. You're Switzerland.”

Tom nodded. “Hmm. Switzerland.”

“Yeah! If you can get him to come to the wedding, maybe Greg can get his mom and his grandpa to come too. What do you say?” She tilted her head. “Come on. Turn on the charm, Wambsgans.”

Tom grinned at her. God, she was beautiful. Her feline eyes, her wavy hair. What had his mom been on about, that they had some kind of boring lukewarm relationship? Nonsense. He raised an eyebrow.

"I've been here before," Tom said. "their bathrooms are really big."

"What? You need to go take a dump?" Shiv asked.

"Aha, no, um, why don't you, and I," he reached out and grabbed her hand over the table. "have a little unscheduled, illicit lunchtime bang?"

"In a fucking public bathroom?"

"You wanna?"

"No!"

"You look so hot," Tom said. 

"You really know how to pick your moments,” Shiv said, rolling her eyes. 

Tom cleared his throat, pulled his hand back. "Yeah, yeah, you're right."

"Yeah," she said, shot him a little smile. "calm down, Wambsgans. But, you'll do it?"

Tom was confused for a moment. Then he nodded. “Sure, Shiv. I’ll talk to him.”

“Cool.” She took a sip of her wine. “He lives in Montreal.”

“What?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is set in like 2006 and that is why Greg is dressed Like That

Shiv didn't really own any warm jackets, apart from an endearingly frumpy long grey number she liked to lounge around in when she was feeling a little down. Since they'd moved in together, Tom hadn't used his either. You just... kind of didn't need one, if you had enough cars and helicopters driving you from door to door and you were never kept waiting in the cold. However, when they were apart he reverted back to his old habits, descending to the humbler sphere of the upper middle classes. So he had on a black Moncler puffa jacket, a knit hat and knit mittens, both handmade one offs (well, by his nonna) to combat the Montreal cold. He hadn't booked a hotel room - hopefully he wouldn't have to stay and could just catch a late flight to NYC, but he'd cleared out his calendar to stay for a night, or even two, if that's what it took. Tom flattered himself he was a persuasive kind of guy and he figured getting this Greg to attend a luxurious wedding should be a cakewalk. Shiv had been a little skimpy on the details but from what he gathered she wasn't really at the heart of this drama, and her extending this olive branch should thaw some of that stubborn Roy pride.

She'd given him an address and he gave it to a taxi driver, and he watched the city through the windows while they drove. He'd never been before. It looked pretty nice. Maybe he and Shiv should do a long weekend or something some time. He rubbed his hands together. Some time in summer.

"Voila," the taxi driver said and Tom nodded, paid, and got out. He looked up at a record store. A neon sign said ELECTRIC HAIRCUT. He frowned. Presumably... this was it. He walked inside and a bell announced his arrival, and he looked around curiously. Rock music played through the sound system. There were crates of records, CDs up to the ceiling, shelves with magazines and other things. It wasn't cramped, but it wasn't big either. Nobody was manning the till. In fact, there was only one other person in the space, browsing, and he was just about the tallest guy Tom had seen in his life. Circus freak tall. He was looking through a crate with a slightly blank expression on his face, long fingers idly flipping through the discs. Tom walked up to browse in the crate next to him. He glanced up, sideways. The guy had to be seven fucking feet. Tom could not remember ever being like... towered over, in his life, before. How weird. But he wasn't bad looking, really, the Taffy-Puller Room survivor. Shock of black hair, a little unruly. Dark eyes. Full bottom lip. He wore a black band T-shirt over a long-sleeved grey T-shirt and a black leather glove on one hand. A silver chain with a pendant shaped like a bird skull hung around his neck. He looked young, but not young enough for that look. 

"Hi," Tom said.

Tall Guy jumped a little, like he hadn't even noticed Tom come up next to him. He looked at him, a long look. "Hey," he said. Pleasant voice. Upwards inflection.

"Cute place," Tom said. "this is my first time in Montreal."

"Oh, uh, yeah... what are you looking for?"

Tom was confused for a moment before he realized he probably meant records. "Oh uh, ha ha, yeah, not, a- I'm, actually looking for a someone. A Greg."

Tall Guy tilted his head. "Lucky Greg," he said, smiled a mild kind of smile.

Tom blinked. What. The fuck? Was that. A come-on? It sure felt like one. He smiled helplessly and laughed, a little embarrassed, a little smug, a little flattered. 

"Yeah he uh- I don't know, I was told I might find him here. He's um," Tom cleared his throat, tried sounding a little more blasé, a little more important. "he's actually related to _the_ Roy family. You know, with the amusement parks, the media conglomerate?"

"Wow," Tall Guy said. “the Roys. No shit.”

"Ha, yeah, and uh, well, I suppose I've been tasked with bringing him back in the fold. Pretty ah, great opportunity for him."

Tall Guy shrugged. "Well, I can't help you."

"No, no. Um." Tom searched his brain for something else to say, then wondered why he was so keen to continue this conversation to nowhere with this hipster on growth hormones.

"You in Montreal long?" Tall Guy asked.

"Aah," Tom said, shrugging. "depends. If I find him I'm going back to New York tonight."

Tall Guy gave him another long, searching look and Tom just looked back, feeling weird. Maybe this was just what people were like, here. All stare-y. Maybe this was normal. Then the guy turned, leaned his back against the crates, and folded his arms. "I'm like, gonna go grab some lunch, pretty soon. You hungry?"

"A ha ha," Tom laughed nervously. Yeah this- had to be a come-on. For real- or as a joke- or a prelude to a robbery- but whatever it was, he should shut it down. He would shut it down.

"I know like, an awesome Vietnamese place," Tall Guy said, leaning in a little and Tom realized he needed to fucking answer if he was going to shut it down.

"I'm um, I'm taken," he said apologetically, raised the hand with the brand new engagement ring, realized it was covered by his mitten and pulled it off. Tall Guy smiled and deep dimples appeared starkly on his face. Maybe he really had misread what was normal Canadian friendliness and things were about to get real embarrassing.

"The cute ones always are," Tall Guy said a little wistfully and Tom's heart started hammering wildly in his chest. Then the bell rang and the door opened and Tom took a step back, as if he'd been doing anything incriminating, and a heavy set guy with a ponytail and a big beard walked inside, nodded at them. 

"Yo," he said. 

"Hey," Tall Guy said, stepped behind the till and pulled out a windbreaker, put it on. "going out to grab something to eat."

"Okay." 

He shot Tom a little smile, then turned back to the bearded guy. "See you later," he said, took a few long strides to the door and opened it.

"See you, Greg," the bearded guy replied.

It took a while before Tom's brain caught up to his feet and Greg had already closed the door behind him when he sprang into action and started jogging after him.


	3. Chapter 3

It didn't take Tom long to catch up. Greg was walking at a leisurely pace, both hands in his pockets, plainly visible, a floppy hat he'd magicked up from somewhere adding even more height to his stature. 

“Hey, hey, you,” Tom said. “real cute uh, fucking little joke there.”

“No joke,” Greg said. “I can't help you.”

“You can hear me out.”

Greg sighed and stopped. “Dude, like, I don't have anything against you, but I don't want anything to do with the Roys.” He shrugged apologetically. “Like, whatever you have to say, the answer is like, no.”

Tom gave him a serious look, threw up both palms in a placating gesture. “I'm not here to invite you to a cactus fucking festival, Greg. I am inviting you to a wedding. Your cousin Siobhan's wedding. Her and _my_ wedding.”

Greg squinted a little. “You're marrying Shiv?”

“Yes,” Tom said, felt his chest puff a little. He still felt a twinge of pride whenever he remembered.

“Why didn't she ask me herself? I'm not hard to find.”

“Um,” Tom said. “there's a big family get-together right now, she's busy with that.”

Greg tilted his head. “And you weren't invited? Even though you're her fiance?”

What the fuck. Sharper than he looked. Tom swallowed, composed himself. He tried to remember the advice of one of his favorite books, How To Win Friends And Influence People. Don't take it personal, don't make it about you. (He wasn't all that good at following the advice, but he liked it.) The sting of not being invited to Logan's birthday party was irrelevant to this, and so he would not push this condescending cartoon moose and his stupid hat into the road. Time to change the subject.

“Was whatever happened really that unforgivable?” Tom asked, reasonably. “It's been years.” Greg frowned.

“She didn't tell you?”

“She told me you were involved in an accident.”

Greg cleared his throat. “I was spending summer vacation at uncle Logan's. We were all visiting the printer press. I got kind of fascinated with one of the big machines. Got too close.” He reached out in front of himself and pulled off his one leather glove. Tom blinked when he realized he wore a prosthetic hand underneath. “It chewed off three of my fingers.” Greg flexed his hand and his prosthetic. It was a little uncanny.

“Where do you live?” Tom asked.

Greg looked a little surprised and for a moment Tom didn't think he'd answer. “Uh, like, just up there,” he said, nodded at the same building the record shop was in. “sixth floor.”

“I'll cook you your fucking lunch. Let's just talk.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, let's go, you have a kitchen, don't you?” His eyebrows flatlined. “Don't you?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “but I don't have any food.”

“What.”

“Um, like... I have cornflakes. I uh... like I usually go out to eat and...”

Tom stared at him. “Come on.”

“What?” 

Tom marched for a little green grocers and Greg followed a little unsurely, and then Tom walked around grabbing stuff, and then paid. “You have wine?” he asked the lady at the till as she bagged up his groceries.

“No, sorry, sir.”

He turned to Greg, who was hovering behind him, gawping a little. “You have any wine?”

“Uhhh... I have like... whiskey?”

Tom rolled his eyes, took his bag. “Let's go. Lead the way.”

“Dude, um, I-”

“I just spent twelve Canadian dollars of my own fucking money GREG are you going to leave me hanging? You can hear me out. Go go go.”

Greg made some tiny little expressions which Tom guessed signalled unusually high brain activity and then he nodded, turned and walked outside, locked them into the building, passed an elevator that said OUT OF ORDER, up six fucking flights of stairs and then through a narrow door Greg had to duck a little to get through, and then into a fairly spacious apartment which looked like it was exclusively furnished with whatever the local equivalent of Goodwill was. Large promotional music posters were tacked onto the wall and Tom guessed he got them free from the record store. The Strokes, Amy Winehouse, The White Stripes, Arcade Fire, The Long Blondes. None of those names meant a single thing to Tom. Greg had a pretty big, old fashioned boxy TV and three machines connected to it that were most likely video game consoles. There was a pretty particular smell to the flat Tom hadn't really been exposed to since his frat house days, and even if he hadn't been able to identify it the huge dirty glass bong next to Greg's beat up leather couch probably would have been a giveaway. There was also a big record player and sound system and a large white shelf holding what looked like hundreds of records. 

Tom cleared his throat, took his jacket off and strode off for the kitchen. “Jesus christ Greg crack open a window.”

“I wasn't like, expecting visitors,” Greg said, walking over to a window to do as Tom asked. “um, I'm still not, exactly sure what you're doing here.”

“Making lunch,” Tom said, started going through the kitchen cabinets. Truly pathetic. Greg had some beat up pots and pans that looked like they were from the eighties, mismatched cutlery, a weird collection of random kitchen utensils, shitty knives, a fucking olive pitter for some reason. Tom didn't believe Greg could pick out an olive in a line up. “you invited me to eat with you, remember?”

“Uh. I guess,” Greg said, took off his windbreaker and sat down on a wooden chair next to his tiny kitchen table, watching Tom. 

“What was that huh” Tom said, filling the biggest pot he found in Greg's pathetic pantry with tap water. “an attempt to like, freak me out? Scare me off?” He put the pot on Greg's oven and turned the heat on high, shot him a look. “You're going to have to try harder than that, sunshine.”

“No,” Greg protested. “I just- like-”

While Greg was stuttering Tom started dicing up strips of bacon. The recipe was better with guanciale, obviously, but it wasn't like he'd had some well stocked deli at his disposal and Greg probably had the palate of a child anyway. Sure enough, when Tom started frying it up he got up, started hovering over his shoulder.

“Smells good,” he said.

“It's just a carbonara,” Tom said, cracked an egg into a bowl with grated parm and whisked it before pouring the mix over his just-drained pasta. It _was_ just a carbonara, but it was easy to fuck up and end up with spaghetti with scrambled eggs and bacon grease, and it needed a keen eye and dab hand to get it perfect. He expertly mixed with two forks before adding the bacon and peppering, and mixed some more. He appraised it. It looked pretty perfect, all glossy and golden with bits of meat interspersed. God, he was good. 

Greg didn't talk much while he ate, and when he was done he grabbed his plate with both hands and licked it, like a fucking dog. It did feel in a weird way like a compliment but Tom still grimaced at him, and Greg had the decency to look a little embarrassed. 

“Um. Uh. Really good, man. Are you a chef?”

“No.” He poured himself a finger of Greg's whiskey, downed it. 

“Um, if you wanna like, hang, watch a movie or play some Super Mario or something, you like, can, but I should probably get back down to the shop.”

“Fuck the shop,” Tom said, poured Greg whiskey too. “we're going to talk.”

“Seriously, there is not a lot to talk about,” Greg said, but downed his whiskey, then gasped a little. “like, the Roys, like, they are immoral and like bad for society, dude. Thanks for the invite, but no thanks.”

“So it's not about the hand?”

“It's a little about the hand. That's not like an ideal situation either.”

“Well, accidents happen Greg. Logan was inattentive for a moment, at least you didn't fucking die.”

“Uh, okay.” 

“Wanna know what I think?” Tom said. “I think it's just all an excuse.”

“Huh?”

“This whole, slumming stoner act. You are so privileged it's insane, and you choose not to interact with family that wants you there, could get you a good job, bring you back into the fold. Because then,” Tom downed a second whiskey, “you'd have to grow the fuck up a bit huh? Maybe have more than two forks that match? Not spend your nights getting high and playing, uh, the Nintendo.”

“Like no offense dude, but you don't know my life,” Greg said. 

“Please. You're so easy to figure out. You're a five piece puzzle for toddlers. You're a Baby-Sitters Club Mystery. And I bet that hand is a real good excuse, too, that must be nice, oh, I'm a fuck-up, I got mangled as a kid, I can't make anything better of myself than haunting a record shop and eating takeaway.”

Something went very dark in Greg's eyes. “Okay, now we did me, maybe we should like do you?” 

“What.”

“I don't know, I just kind of think it's interesting that Shiv sends you off to track me down while she's with the rest of the family, like you'd think maybe you'd be included in that? But that's not like, what they're like, I guess.”

“Okay, Greg, you already tried this tack.”

“But it sucks, right?” Greg asked. “Where are you from? Not New York.”

Tom felt a little taken aback. His summers in the Bronx and his subsequent relocation gave him a sense of entitlement to the city, and he felt like he blended in pretty well. “Minneapolis.”

“Yeah, makes sense. That like, jacket you have with the big label on it. You're dazzled by the money, right, dude? You'll take a lot of humiliation to get to it. And you'll have to, trust me.”

“Hey,” Tom said. “you don't know my life either, _bro_.” He said the last word in an elongated way, _broOoO_ , aiming for sarcasm and landing on surrealism. He was getting drunk. He kind of wanted to get more drunk. He took a swig straight from the bottle. 

“Yeah, I know the way you looked at me in the record shop though, and that's not really how a man super stoked about his upcoming wedding tends to look at me. But I mean, good luck to you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Greg grabbed the bottle off him, drank and shrugged. 

Tom got up, a little unsteadily, tried to look menacing. “If- if you- have something to say to me, maybe you should just come right out and say it.” The words were a little bolder than what Tom really felt, which was terror. He didn't actually want Greg to name any of those things, whatever had drawn him right over to him to say hi, that had made him laugh nervously like a schoolgirl, that for a split second had made him wonder what it would be like to tilt his face up for someone. Greg got up too, towered over him, and Tom prayed to a god he did not believe in that he wouldn't call his bluff. 

“Okay. I think you're a climber.” 

Tom took a step towards him. “And I think you're a fucking bum.”

Greg stepped forward too, and there wasn't a whole lot more room between them, and he opened his mouth to speak, and he seemed to forget what he was going to say, or maybe just changed his mind, and then a hand which was half flesh and half prosthetic spread out over the back of Tom's head and pulled him forward and then Greg's lips were hard and insistent on his and he heard himself make a whimpering noise and then he put his hands on Greg's chest, pushed him away.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute-” he gasped.

Greg looked at him wide-eyed, maybe a little contrite, then Tom put both arms around Greg's neck and kissed him again.


	4. Chapter 4

Tom's head was spinning. He was currently locked in a long, wet and hungry kiss with his fiancee's gigantic cousin, who was also... a dude, and not even like, remotely the type of dude Tom had in his most private moments considered the appeal of (Timothy Dalton as James Bond, Bryan Ferry, and Kendall Roy's friend Stewy Hosseini for about two minutes before he opened his mouth). He had both arms wrapped around Greg's neck like some kind of fucking Hollywood leading lady and put his weight on them like he wanted to climb him, the big Canadian maple, but Greg either didn't get it or didn't have the upper body strength to support him because he just folded down, collapsing at the knees to get down to Tom's level.

Tom pulled away, gasping, licked his slick lips. Greg looked at him with a really weird, intense look. He looked more confused than anything but Tom was beginning to suspect that was his default. Still though, he preferred it to smugness or knowingness or anything else that suggested Greg had some kind of upper hand here, which he tried convincing himself he definitely did not. Then something determined appeared in Greg's big dark eyes. 

“Come on,” he said, grabbed Tom's hand.

“Uh- where are we going?”

“Bed,” Greg said.

“Right. Okay. Excellent suggestion. Good thinking,” Tom babbled, as he walked after Greg through his gross living room and through another door into a small bedroom with a queen-sized mattress directly on the fucking floor. Jesus, how squalid. The critical, condescending voice that lived in his head, the one he nurtured and supported in his quest to become part of the New York filthy rich, started mumbling things about mold, and the dirty glasses on the floor, the stack of cheap paperbacks and comic books, but, unusually, Tom barely acknowledged it. They crashed down on the mattress in a heap and it kind of hurt but he didn't even care about that, there was something excitingly fumbly and adolescent and _needy_ about all this which he hadn't really experienced since he was a literal adolescent. Greg's tongue was in his mouth and Greg's hands were nimbly and quickly undoing the buttons on his shirt and then he pulled away, pushed Tom up enough so he could pull the shirt all the way off, tossed it across the room. Tom bit his lip, grabbed Greg's stupid double T-shirt by the hems and started pulling it off, and Greg raised his arm and he got past his head.

“Stop, stop,” Greg said, muffled.

“What?”

“Um, I forgot my chain, I'm choking?”

Tom laughed, pulled the T-shirts back down far enough for him to find and unclasp the chain and get rid of it before pulling the shirts all the way off, and Greg's hair stuck out in pretty much every direction and he was thin and pale and looked – just adorable. He straddled Greg's thighs and leaned in to kiss him again and Greg's arms came up tight around him. This kiss was softer, slower, more exploratory. 

“Can I fuck you?” Greg asked with wet lips against Tom's.

“Um uh uhh” Tom said. “no.”

“Okay,” Greg said and Tom could feel his lips form a smile. “do you wanna fuck me?”

“Aaah,” Tom said. “yes?”

He pulled away a little and Greg was grinning at him, dimples and all. “You sure?”

“Yes, fuck you, I'm sure.” He wrenched off his undershirt and pressed Greg down, laid down on top of him, skin to skin. Greg was all warm and wiry and he kissed him and it was all heady and messy again and then Greg kind of flipped them around, and they nearly fell off the mattress onto the floor, and then Greg scrambled away and started pulling off his trousers and Tom did the same, tried to keep up. 

The “no” he'd told Greg when he'd asked if he could fuck him had been a total kneejerk reaction but he was pretty glad that was what had come out of his mouth when he saw the size of Greg's dick, flushed and a little curved. He was pretty sure there was no physical way he could have taken all of that. He swallowed, suddenly felt self-conscious about staring and looked up to realize Greg was looking at him, too.

“Fuck, that's nice,” Greg breathed. 

“Yeah?” Tom said, wished to God he could stop sounding so unsure. Greg shifted to sit on his knees, steadied himself on both hands and leaned in for another kiss, and Tom's hand came up in that mop of black hair. This kiss was a little more teasing and Tom found himself chasing him, trying to pull him back in, and then Greg pulled away from his mouth altogether and kissed Tom's neck, the hollow of his throat, licked at a nipple which made Tom yelp in an undignified way with surprise, and then Greg's tongue was flat and broad on Tom's cock, he held onto the shaft to steady it and just- laved at it, before swallowing down, firm and determined, and deep.

“Aah Jesus Christ,” Tom said weakly. 

“Mmm,” Greg replied thickly.

Tom could hear his own whimpers turn into sobs and for a weird moment he had an out of body experience, saw himself, ostensibly on a cute little day trip to hand over a wedding invite, naked and needy with his fiancee's cousin between his thighs on the most sordid mattress on the American continent. 

Greg pulled off and Tom felt utterly bereft, flopped over on his side and started scrounging for something, found it, and threw it at Tom.

“Huh?” he asked, looked at the half-full tube in his lap, at his suddenly unattended erection.

“Um, like, lube,” Greg said, shot him a look. “like- you've like, done this before?”

“Of course I have, don't be an idiot,” Tom said, a little out of breath. Of course he had. Slept with lots of people. Lots of... women. “I just thought maybe you could do it yourself.”

“I'm a fuck up,” Greg said with a smile in what Tom deduced was supposed to be an imitation of his own voice. “I got mangled as a kid.”

“Um, very funny, turn around.”

Greg did and Tom just kind of swallowed, then gently kissed the back of his neck, just for something to do. He could hear Greg sigh at that. 

Tom coated his fingers a little experimentally, and suddenly felt a determination which most likely meant his erection had managed to kick his brain out of the driver's seat. He circled Greg's butthole gently and then he pushed a digit inside, and Greg squirmed a little but didn't protest. He was very warm and very tight and Tom felt his mouth water and his chest constrict a little. 

“Okay,” Greg said after Tom had worked two fingers inside, scissoring them experimentally and making Greg gasp. “um, if, I can just,” he moved away and Tom's fingers slipped out of him, and he started scrounging in his fucking disgusting mess of belongings again, located a condom, ripped it open and put it on Tom, looked up at him with a smile. Then he laid back down on his back, grabbed his knees. Okay. Face to face. Not a problem. 

When he pushed inside, anchored with one hand next to Greg, Greg closed his eyes and his lips parted on a gasp.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You look- you look fucking amazing,” Tom said, heard his own voice go high. “good _god_.”

It was slow at first, Greg wincing a little but encouraging with little smiles and touches, and then Tom took up speed, snapped his hips and Greg got up on his elbows, and Tom leaned in, and there were more kisses, Tom sucked on that beautiful bottom lip, Greg teased at Tom's tongue with his, and the buildup had been kind of rushed and needy and messy but when Tom looked into Greg's eyes and Greg looked back with his intense, dark gaze he felt overwhelmed by a vast intimacy, and realized he'd felt it from the first moment he'd laid eyes on Gregory Hirsch. It was – it had to be just his imagination. 

Greg snaked a hand inbetween them and started stroking his own dick, and he pushed the back of his head into his pillow, closed his eyes. 

“Lke that- like that-” he gasped and then he came over his stomach. Tom slowed down, looked at him. “it's okay, it's okay,” Greg said after catching his breath for a moment, held onto both of Tom's arms. “do it.”

It only took a few hard thrusts, looking down at Greg all flushed and dozy-eyed, before Tom followed with a strangled little noise, and then he slumped over Greg, put his forehead to his. Then Greg's large hands were gentle at his neck and he tilted his face for a sweet little kiss. 

Tom rolled off him and for a few moments they just laid very close and then Tom pulled away and Greg magicked up some paper towels and they cleaned up the worst of the mess.

“I need a shower,” Tom said.

“I'd recommend waiting until morning,” Greg said. “there won't be any hot water right now.”

“Jesus Christ, Greg.” He sighed, opened his arms, and Greg put his head on Tom's shoulder, put his hand on his chest. "Will you take it off?” Tom asked, suddenly curious.

Greg looked at him with a frown. “Uh, okay?”

He leaned up on an elbow and took his prosthetic off, leaving a stumped right hand with only thumb and forefinger. Tom brought his palm to Greg's.

“Do you feel that?”

Greg smiled. “What?”

“Like, you know, phantom pain. Can you feel this?” He curled his fingers inwards like he was intertwining his fingers with Greg's missing ones.

“No, Tom. They're not there,” Greg said. “either way, I'm pretty sure that's not how it works.”

“I thought, just, maybe...”

“I've never really experienced that whole phantom limb thing,” Greg said thoughtfully. “if I did I forgot. It's been a long time.”

Tom brought Greg's hand back down to his chest and he felt Greg flex his fingers.

“You're so hairy,” Greg said with a smile in his voice.

“Um,” Tom said. “I've been so busy lately I haven't been able to see... you know.”

“Huh?”

“You know. My person.”

Greg looked utterly blank.

“My _wax artist_ , Greg,” Tom said. 

“You wax?”

“Yes, of course I do. Nobody likes back and shoulder hair, Greg.”

Greg looked a little quizzical. “I do.” He came in for a closer hug. “Winters get cold up here.” 

Tom laughed. “Good point.” He looked out of the window and frowned. “Hey, um, look at that. Look at the fucking size of it.” He pushed Greg away and got up for a better look. 

Outside the moon was full and bright, and weirdly large. It illuminated the tiny bedroom in pale blue light. Greg got up too, put his comforter around his shoulders like a cape and then stood behind Tom, wrapping them both up in it. 

“I think it's a supermoon,” Greg said. “I read about it in the paper, that we were having one soon. Like, uh, that's when a full moon occurs when the moon is like at its closest... orbit... to earth or whatever.”

“I thought we just had a full moon,” Tom said thoughtfully. “weird.”

“Hmm,” Greg sighed, put his chin on Tom's shoulder. “it's pretty.”

Tom turned his face a little, enough that his nose grazed the side of Greg's face. “My nonna... um, that is to say my grandma, says that full moons are magical. They pull lovers together. La luna unisce gli amanti.”

“Yeah?”

“Probably nothing to it,” Tom said and pursed his lips to kiss Greg's cheek. 

“Come back to bed,” Greg said in a very soft voice. Tom turned inside the embrace and put his arms around Greg's waist, tilted his face up for another kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

_Tom Wambsgans, fourteen years old, tall and strapping, took a hammer to the nail he was holding between forefinger and thumb on his left hand and tapped it into place. His nonna nodded at him, smiled warmly, and pushed him gently away to reach up and hang the picture of his father, the one she had asked him to bring and had picked up from the framers that morning. They looked together at their handiwork and Tom's arm came up to drape itself around her shoulders._

_“Grazie, nonna,” he said, felt emotional._

_“Anche lui famiglia, eh,” she told him, patted his cheek. “hai fame?”_

_Tom grinned. He followed her into the kitchen and they kept talking intimately in Italian. He'd taken to it pretty easily, encouraged by shipments of Dylan Dog and Corto Maltese comic books from step-relatives in Napoli he'd only met the twice._

_“Tell me about your father,” she said, opening a plastic bag of zucchini flowers. Tom's interest perked. He loved zucchini flower fritters._

_“Um, he was fun. He was funny. He was a schoolteacher. We used to play a lot of ball together, go camping.” He sighed. “I have like, only good memories.”_

_“Good, good,” his nonna said. “tell me about your parents' wedding.”_

_“Um, I guess it was nice? I think they were in love and stuff.”_

_“I mean, the ceremony.”_

_“I wasn't there,” Tom said. “I wasn't born. But my mom told me they got married at City Hall.”_

_Nonna shot him a look. “When you get married, Tommy, you do it in the church, you hear me? City Hall,” she said, shaking her head. “unlucky.”_

_Tom frowned a little._

_“Cancer, losing your father so young... bad luck,” she said, a little plaintively. “you do it right, Tommy. You find a good woman, and you get down on one knee, and you get married in the church, and you'll have good luck.”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” Tom said, felt a little embarrassed. “um, do you need some help with that?”_

_“Such a good boy!”_

* * *

Tom awoke to a mild hangover and a two second period of utter confusion before the events of the previous night came crashing down into his head like a shit avalanche. 

“Oh JESUS CHRIST,” he said, grabbed the thin arm that tapered into a mangled hand which was slung across his middle and pushed it away, and Gregory Hirsch woke up behind him.

“Uh? Huh?” he said.

Tom didn't answer, just got up, started roaming across the little bedroom which looked even more squalid in the light of day to locate all his clothes. His shirt was halfway into the living room, his undershirt draped over some dirty glasses (ew ew ew), trousers and underwear and socks all in an undignified ball at the end of Greg's mattress.

“Do you like, have to be somewhere?” Greg asked, watching him hurriedly dress. 

Tom shot him a withering glare. “Are you fucking serious right now? This- this is the stupidest, craziest thing I've done in my life. I need to go back to New York, and I'll tell Shiv you refused to come, and you and I never see each other again.”

Greg's eyes went wide and he got up, grabbed Tom by the arm as he started hurrying out into the living room. “Um, wait, like, can we talk?”

“What is there possibly to talk about?” Tom said, pulling his arm out of Greg's grip. “God, maybe nonna was right about the bad luck.”

“Huh? Like, Tom, Tom, okay, like, disclaimer – I don't usually say shit like this, and uh, like I probably wouldn't if you weren't freaking out, and I don't want you to freak out more?”

“What the fuck?”

“I think maybe I'm in love with you?”

Tom just kind of squealed, then he delivered a light slap to Greg's face. Greg's hand came up to his face, and he looked very wounded.

“Snap out of it!” Tom said. 

“I don't think I can,” Greg said. 

Then Tom slapped him with his other hand, on the other cheek.

“Stop hitting me!” Greg said.

“Stop talking,” Tom said, put his palm over Greg's mouth. “look, you don't love me, you don't know me. We've known each other twelve hours.”

Greg grabbed Tom's wrist and pulled his hand away. “Maybe that's like all it takes some times? Like, are you telling me you didnt feel it at all? Because I did from like- from like the moment I saw you.”

Tom bit his lip, vividly remembered the way they'd kissed when he'd been inside Greg, how he'd had this weird feeling of recognition, of everything feeling _just right_. “I have to go.” He grabbed his Moncler jacket and put it on.

“Well, okay. See you at the wedding,” Greg said.

Tom turned from where he was ready to open the front door. “No,” he said, pointing. “you're uninvited.”

“Shiv wants me there,” Greg said, shrugging. 

“You're not coming!”

“Yeah, I am,” Greg said. “I can probably get my mom to come, too. Maybe not my grandpa, he's uh, he doesn't really like leaving the house. But I can try. That's what Shiv wanted, right? To get us all back on speaking terms?”

Tom stared at him, long and naked and defiantly crossing his arms while looking- well, there was something like desperation in his eyes. He sighed. “Greg. I am begging you. Do not come to this wedding.”

Greg looked down. “One condition.”

“What.”

“I'm going to New York today-”

“Oh no you're fucking not!”

“Yes I fucking am, okay, Tom, this has been planned for literally months. I'm going to a gig at Joe's Pub? Lke, my favorite artist in the world is playing tonight? Me and Donut – um, guy I run the record shop with – we were gonna drive down in my van this morning, be there by night, see the gig, sleep in the car.”

“Okay?”

“Well, it's totally sold out, but Donut isn't that interested, he's just tagging along, so I'd uh, I'd rather give the ticket to you.” He looked up at him. “If you would come with me, and see my favorite artist, in like my favorite New York venue-” Greg took an intake of breath. “that would- if I could have a night like that, I think uh, I think I could be happy with just that.”

Tom blinked. “Joe's Pub.”

“Yeah. Have you been?”

“No.” Tom swallowed. “One night.”

“One night.”

“Then we never see each other again.”

“No.”

“And you don't come to the wedding.”

Greg shook his head.

Tom sighed. “Okay. Okay. Fine. Um. Well, I'm certainly not going in the Magical Mystery Tour Van, uh, I'll buy you a plane ticket. Returning tomorrow. Um, get dressed, pack your little toothbrush.”

The morning was a little mortifying, he did his little walk of shame down to the record shop were Greg explained the change of plans to Donut who appeared to take it all in serene, zen-like stride, and they were off for the airport, a ratty messenger bag slung over Greg's shoulder. The flight was mercifully short, Greg got the window seat and spent a lot of the trip just staring out of the window. Tom pretended to sleep.

“Where's the venue?” Tom asked, stepping into a cab.

“Um, East Village? On Lafayette?”

“Okay, I know um, can you take us to the Regent, please,” he told the driver. 

Greg gawped when he stepped into the elegant hotel foyer. “I can't afford this,” he said in a low voice, leaning in.

Tom grimaced at him. “I'm paying, don't be fucking stupid. One night.”

They walked up to the counter and Greg checked in, received a heavy silver key. He gawped a little at that, too.

“Okay, uh. See you tonight,” Tom said.

“You could- you could come up to the room with me?” Greg said. “I bet it's super nice.”

Tom shook his head. “No. No. Not part of the deal. I said I'd go with you to the concert, that's it. I'll see you there at – when does it start?”

“Um, like, we could meet there at like, eight thirty I guess?”

“Okay. Eight thirty. Fine.”

“You'll be there?”

“Yes, I said I would GREG.” Tom nodded. “See you.”

Greg nodded, gave him a long look, then turned for the hotel elevator. Tom inhaled, turned and left.


	6. Chapter 6

After leaving Greg at the probably too flashy hotel (Greg probably would have considered a youth hostel a step up, considering the way he lived, but Tom just couldn't let any chance to show off his wealth pass) he went back to his place, took a very long shower, and then called Shiv.

_”Hi, Tom.”_

“Oh Shiv! My festive toffee nut frappuccino! I miss you!”

 _”Okay, Tom. Miss you too, honey.”_

“Soo,” he said. There was an awkward pause.

_“So?”_

“Well, what- what did everyone say? To the good news?”

_“Oh. Oh! No, I, kind of, haven't broached it yet.”_

Tom frowned. “Why not?”

_“There just hasn't been a chance to. I'm waiting for the right moment.”_

“Okay,” Tom said. “well um, do you think that moment will be, soon?”

_“Oh, yeah, yeah! So ahh, how about, did you get to see Greg?”_

Tom swallowed. “Yeah, I ah, I found him, at his little uh, record shop... but he was pretty clear he didn't want anything to do with the wedding. I'm sorry, Shiv.”

She sighed on the other end. _“Well. Thanks for trying, Tom.”_

“You're welcome,” Tom said, heard his own voice go uncomfortably high.

_“Look, I'll- I'll tell dad tomorrow, okay? We're doing a big breakfast. He loves breakfast. I'll catch him in a good mood, okay?”_

Tom frowned. “He needs to be in a good mood?”

_“It won't hurt, okay? Look, Tom, I have to go. I'll talk to you soon.”_

“Okay, bye hon-” She hung up. At that, an odd feeling blossomed in his chest. A weird little bud of anger. He wasn't sure why - it wasn't the first time she'd hung up on him like that, or refused to explain something he wanted more information about. But right now he felt really annoyed for some reason. “Right,” he told the silent phone. 

A little later he was at the barber, getting a close shave. “Do you think you could do something about the hair?” he asked, face full of foam.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe just... less flat,” Tom said, looking sceptically at himself. He wondered what the hell kind of gig it was. He couldn't begin to guess what the hell Greg was into. By the size of his record collection, literally everything on earth. The barber raised his eyebrow in the mirror, and when he'd finished shaving Tom he silently rubbed gel into his hands and ran them through Tom's hair.

Face a little smoother and hair a little spikier, Tom ventured into a menswear shop, and probably looked very lost because a shop assistant came over.

“Can I help you?”

“No. Yeah. Maybe. I'm um, going to a concert tonight? I'm not sure what to...” He faltered a little. 

“Date?” the shop assistant asked, raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Tom said firmly. “not a date.”

With some help Tom had landed on a casual suit in a shiny fabric and a bold purple shirt to go with it. Truly not his usual. He got dressed, considered a tie, rejected the idea and then unbuttoned the top two buttons instead, looked at himself, put his hands in his pockets. Nice? Good? Right? God, what if it was a hip hop concert. Maybe he should have gotten a hoodie instead. He sighed, looked at the time. He'd spent most of the day... working on a look. How tragic. He called a cab.

There were a lot of people outside the venue, but Greg was easy to spot. He was looking around unsurely, hands in his jacket pocket. Tom walked up to him. 

“Hey,” Tom said, felt weirdly nervous. Greg smiled over his whole face, opened his arms in a surprised gesture. His one black leather glove was back on.

“Wow! You- wow. You look great.”

Tom shrugged. “Just ah, you know. Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Greg said. “like- the clothes and the- wow, you look so good.”

“You uh, you look nice, too,” Tom said. He did. In a very Greg-like way (when did things already start to become recognizably Greg-like?). He had on a T-shirt with a drawing of a skull, a leather jacket and black skinny jeans. A pendant shaped like Pac-Man hung from a chain around his neck and Tom reached out, tilted it, shook his head.

“Wanna go inside?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, let's go.”

They had to queue for about ten minutes before they were in but the place was already pretty packed. They got beers from the bar and then Greg walked for a spot in back. “I always stand in back,” he said, leaning down and talking in Tom's ear. “people get, like, mad at me, for being in the way.”

Tom sniggered a little. “You fucking are. Look at them,” he said, nodding towards a group of short girls who looked well into their martinis. “imagine you're some little lady and here comes the Great Wall of Greg right in front of you. You're fucked.”

“Yeah, I get it. It's easier to hang back. And I always see, so. I like to get closer at like, punk gigs and stuff, where it's mostly guys and you can mosh, but these kinds of gigs, I always hang back.”

“I haven't been to that many concerts,” Tom said. “this is kind of new to me. I've seen Billy Joel, but that was at a stadium.”

“Billy Joel,” Greg laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What kind of music is this, anyway?”

“Umm, like... I don't know, kind of soul.”

“Billy Joel is kind of soul,” Tom said defensively, and Greg laughed again.

Closer to ten they were five or six beers in and Tom had kind of forgotten why they were even there, he was just enjoying drinking and shooting the shit. Loud music was playing over the sound system and Greg got real excited by several of the tracks, they'd even kind of danced together to some of them. They jumped around to a bouncy rock track and Tom just felt uninhibited and young and ridiculous.

“What is this?” he yelled at Greg.

“Um, Chelsea Dagger, by The Fratellis.”

“They're great!”

“Not really. They have like one good song. But that's what's really cool right now, there are a bunch of bands that all have one really good song! Some have good albums, but most acts right now just have good singles. Except The Long Blondes, they have, like, both.”

“Whatever!” Tom said cheerfully, patting Greg's shoulders hard. “More drinks, Gregorino!”

Tom set off for the bar but then Greg grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back. The lights were dimming and the crowd started cheering.

“It's starting!” Greg said, excited and starry-eyed, holding onto him. 

The band came out, started playing an upbeat, soulful tune, and Tom bopped his head, getting into it. Three black guys in sharp suits were dancing to the beat. He looked up at Greg, who was staring at the stage, looked a little bit like he was holding his breath. One of the dancers stopped doing moves and announced into his microphone:

“Ladies and gentlemen, would you welcome to the stage, miss, Amy Winehouse!”

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, and Greg was cheering really loud, clapping his huge hands together. A skinny woman with a huge beehive, a cocktail dress and high heels, enough eyeliner Tom could see it from his vantage point in back, clutching a glass of red wine, stepped onto stage. 

“Awright? Awright, New York, New York?” the woman said from stage in an English accent. Really? A _brit?_ Tom frowned. 

“This is your favorite artist?” he asked Greg and then- then she started singing, and her voice was deep and warm and powerful and sexy, and she did all these jazz improvs and vocal runs and it was- it was really different from Billy Joel. Tom's mouth fell open a little. He looked up at Greg and Greg outright beamed at him. 

“Isn't she amazing?”

Tom just nodded.

Even not knowing the music, Tom got really into it. Eventually he did make his way over to the bar, inbetween songs, she was speaking in an indecipherable accent, slurring her words, and he figured he wasn't missing anything, but most of the audience seemed to be hanging onto every syllable. When he made his way back to Greg, handing him his glass, she started a slowie which was pretty hypnotic, and Tom felt a rush of gratitude, of Greg taking him to experience this, he would certainly never even have thought of it on his own accord. So he didn't pull away when Greg's arm snaked itself around his waist, when his long body leaned into Tom's. The song picked up pace.

“This is really fucking good,” Tom said, a little blown away. “I'm getting the CD.”

Greg looked at him, a little drunk and dozy-eyed, his lips full and pink and parted, his pupils all blown and Tom stared back for a second, then raised a hand and patted him on the shoulder before pulling away. “Going for a piss.”

Tom made his way through the crowd into the urinals, one other guy was there, and Tom walked over to piss, sighed. He had completely lost count of how many beers he'd had. He was dimly aware of the other guy washing his hands and leaving, and then somebody else came in. Tom zipped up, and turned to look right into Greg's face.

“Hey uh man,” Tom said.

Greg leaned down a little, kissed him. Tom was honestly too drunk and tired to protest, he just put both arms around Greg's neck and kissed back, humming into his mouth, slowly licking back at Greg's insistent tongue, caught Greg's bottom lip between his own. Greg pulled away a little, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment, put his forehead to Tom's.

“Wanna uh, wanna go in a stall, before someone else comes in?” Greg asked. His black hair hung heavy in front of his eyes, he looked all undone.

“Huh?”

“Wanna?”

“You wanna... bang in a fucking public bathroom Greg?”

“Yeah, wanna?”

Tom scrunched his face in an amused grimace. “Come on, we're missing the end.” He took Greg's hand, a sweet rejection, and pulled him back into the crowd.


	7. Chapter 7

Around midnight Greg and Tom were walking along the street, talking about the concert. The cold night air was like an injection of adrenaline. Tom kind of felt like he could run a mile.

“I didn't understand a thing she said,” Tom said, grinning. “she was _shitfaced_.”

“I mean, she was probably kinda drunk, but like, I think it was mostly that she's, like, English.”

Tom laughed. “It was awesome though. I didn't know what hit me. She was just like ello ello bob's your uncle and then she starts singing and THAT comes out.”

“She's just so fucking good, she's magic,” Greg said. “I'm like, so glad you came with me?”

“I'm glad you asked me,” Tom said honestly. Then Greg stopped. Tom looked up. They were in front of The Regent Hotel. “Oh yeah,” Tom said. “this is you.” He felt a little wistful. “I guess this is goodbye, Greg.” 

He considered maybe suggesting they go into the hotel bar. Just one more drink. Just one.

“Yeah. Yeah. Or. Or you could come up.”

Tom shook his head. “No, no, no. Not the deal. The deal was, I come out with you, and then we don't see each other again, remember?”

“Do you really not wanna see me again?” Greg asked, frowning. “Like, really?”

Tom bit his bottom lip, sucked it inbetween his teeth.

“Because I- because I want more, right?” Greg said.

“That wasn't the deal,” Tom said, and hated how weak his voice sounded.

“Okay, but Tom, consider, maybe, fuck the deal.”

“I'm getting married to your cousin,” Tom said. Just minutes ago he'd been elated enough to climb the Empire State Building, now he felt like he could cry.

"Like, if you can just, look me in the eye and say you don't feel anything for me, and you don't wanna come up with me right now, then we leave it here. Just tell me. Just say it."

Tom swallowed and when he spoke his voice was all wavery. "Do you- do you have any concept of what you're asking me to forfeit, here?" 

Greg just gave him a defiant look. “That's not a no.”

"You're asking me to- what are you asking me to do, exactly? What do you want from me?"

"Come up."

"Okay, and then what, Greg? Come with you to Montreal? Live on love, weed and cornflakes?"

Greg shrugged. "We'd figure something out."

"You literally have no concept of 'tomorrow', do you?" Tom said. "You're a goldfish with an erection."

Greg stepped closer. "And you're a coward."

"Oh I'm- I'm a coward? Do you have any idea how much is on the line here? If I lose Shiv, I lose my job, I lose my relationship, I-"

Greg laughed. "You're asking _me_ if I know how much is on the line? Dude, I'm, well, well I'm not, but technically, I'm a Roy. Like um, top ten richest family in America? But you've seen my place. I didn't get any help starting the shop, me and Donut took out a loan together, his parents helped us out with collateral. They're fucking dentists. I made my choice. Like, maybe you think I live in a pile of shit or whatever, but it's _my_ pile of shit, you know?" He tilted his head. “Like, yeah, the whole, bad blood thing... it's mainly my grandpa, but like, he hated uncle Logan way before I lost my hand. My mom was mad as hell for a while but a few years back she wanted me to go to New York, ask uncle Logan for a job. Start on the floor at Waystar, work my way up, I don't fucking know. I probably would have got it, you know, show off the prosthetic, lay some guilt on. But I'd made up my own mind about that side of the family, and what I wanted to do with my life. Music makes me fucking happy. And I just- I just wanna be happy. That's it.”

Tom swallowed, and was involuntarily flooded with a sort of admiration. Could it really be that propping up that grungey air dancer was an iron core of integrity that put Tom's to shame? He suddenly remembered asking Shiv if she thought he might get one of those sweet high paying executive gigs at ATN - fucking ATN! - and felt shame heat his face. They'd talked about changing the system from the inside, but, well, yeah. It was one of those conversations they had where they said one thing and meant something else. They had a lot of those. Another thing that was very different with Greg, the transparent fuck. 

And Greg was looming over him now, making Tom look up, and then his gloved hand was surprisingly gentle on Tom's face, and Tom found himself leaning into the touch.

"Like, I swear, Tom, I don't like usually go around telling- basically strangers – that I love them, or give them fucking sold out Amy Winehouse tickets-" Tom breathed a laugh. "or like, tell them to upend their lives for me. I don't, truly. But I just - I look at you and I just - it just feels so _right,_ and I mean, if the option is you going off and getting married and never talking to me again, I'd rather just put my cards on the table, as it were?"

Tom's hand came up to where Greg's was resting on his face, held onto it, held it in place. He wanted to say something but couldn't think of anything that wasn't either far too pathetic or far too earnest.

"But seriously. If... you don't feel it... if it's just me... and you don't want to... then just _say so_ , Tom."

Tom Wambsgans took a big wavery breath and then he used his other hand to grab the back of Greg's neck and pull him downwards for a kiss.

It started to rain.


	8. Chapter 8

The kiss gave way to another and then another and both Greg's hands were on Tom's face, one mostly stiff and immobile and the other softly stroking, shaping itself to Tom's face. Tom sighed into another kiss, this one sharpened by the scrape of teeth, his chest rising into Greg's before falling. He pulled away a little.

“Greg, it's ah, it's raining.”

“Is it?” Greg said. “I didn't notice.”

“Oh, fuck you. Fuck off.”

Greg giggled. He petted Tom's wet hair down. “You actually look good like this. All drenched.”

Tom grabbed Greg's waist, pushed him a little backwards so he had to take a step back to steady himself. “Up. Come on. Up up up.”

They went into the hotel, Greg's hand came fumbling for Tom's but he pulled it out of reach, put it on the small of Greg's back instead, pushing, pushing. 

“Hey, Maggie!” Greg said cheerfully.

“Hey, Greg!” the receptionist said, gave him a little wave. Tom frowned. What the fuck.

“Making friends?” Tom asked, trying to sound good-natured and failing, when they were in the elevator. He felt a stupid little twinge of jealousy. He was good at repressing that feeling around Shiv, be all cool and post feminist and urbane about it, even as a tiny leech-mouthed sliver inside screamed with impotent, desperate rage. With Greg that little feeling appeared to have a direct line to his mouth.

“Just chatting,” Greg said, shrugging. 

“Yeah, better be.” He insinuated his hands under Greg's T-shirt, cold and damp, and dug his fingers in. 

Greg laughed a little incredulously, then leaned down for another kiss. 

Tom was actually pretty psyched to see the inside of the room he'd got Greg. He'd never actually stayed at The Regent hotel, but it was one of those hotels he always liked the look of. He kept a mental list of these places, anything to look like a real insider, like a real New Yorker, oh I know just the little place, let me arrange it for you. Greg, of course, had seen right through the act, but he still kept it up for some reason.

He arched his eyebrows when Greg locked them inside. It was fucking nice. Art deco wallpaper, large, tall bed, breakfast nook with a view over the city, flat screen TV. He looked inside the bathroom at black marble floors and a bathtub with lion's feet. 

Greg stepped into that bathroom and grabbed a thick, luxurious towel off the wall, and then threw it in Tom's face. He yelped a little, surprised, then glared at a laughing Greg while he dried off his face and hair as best he could. Greg wrenched off his jacket and his T-shirt, quick and fluid, and then he was left with just the Pac-Man pendant on his pale, sparsely haired chest. That dark hair thickened into a trail on his stomach leading into his black skinny jeans. He dabbed himself with his own towel, smiling at Tom, and Tom suddenly realized he'd stopped in the middle of a movement, the towel close to his neck, just watching him. And he was clearly being obvious, because Greg looked real smug, and then he sort of, _sauntered_ over, and Tom grabbed onto him and the next kiss was hard, possessive. They undressed quick, messy, halted a little by the two man effort to get Greg's tight, damp jeans off, Greg on his back, raising himself on his elbows, Tom pulling. He took another moment just to look at Greg, long and pale and naked, looking up at him, supine on that very nice looking bed, and then he climbed on top of him, and Greg caged him in with long legs, gripped the blades of his shoulders with large hands, stroked down the length of his spine. Tom kissed Greg's long neck hard, felt a shudder of excitement at the thought of bruising him, marking him. A signal for Montreal hipsters and New York receptionists to lay off. Greg's hands found their way down to Tom's ass, shaped themselves to its curve, kneaded hard with long fingers. 

Tom pulled away on a gasp. “Listen- do you think maybe you could take the prosthetic off?”

Greg tilted his head. “Uh, sure. Does it feel weird?”

Tom smiled, a warm smile. “A little.”

“Yeah, sure, man-” Greg pulled his hands back, took it off. “like, some people think it's creepy when I don't have it on, I guess it's like, maybe a symmetry thing?”

Tom grabbed Greg's hand, kissed his thumb, his forefinger, the scar that ran a seam from it. Greg breathed in deep, open mouthed, his chest rose against Tom's.

“Look uh, uh, Tom, I- like, is it maybe okay if I fuck you? I just- jesus christ. It'll be good, I promise.” 

And at that, Tom Wambsgans, tired and wired and drunk and apparently careening in a clown car towards crashing everything he'd worked for in his life into a brick wall, decided maybe it would be nice to just lie back and let somebody else be in control for a little while, and just nodded.

Greg's eyes widened for a moment, then he smiled gently and pushed Tom off him. 

“Could you like, maybe, on your stomach?” 

Tom flopped over, pillowed his head on his forearms, diagonal across the bed. 

“Fuck, you look, like, you look so good? Holy shit.”

“Heh,” Tom said stupidly, not really sure how to respond to that kind of compliment. Then he made a weak noise at Greg swinging his leg over and straddling him, Greg's hard dick landing unceremoniously between his shoulder blades, and then he bent over and dragged himself down Tom's body, and the tip of his tongue ran up the inside of Tom's thigh.

“Fuck,” Tom said in a wavery voice, and Greg's tongue found its way to his other thigh, and then both palms were spread out on Tom's ass, pulling him apart, wrenching him open, and – and then – Greg fucking _spat at him_ and it was gross and wet and warm and _hot_ and Tom just shuddered, a whole body shudder down into the mattress, and realized just how turned on he was. Greg sighed long and sweet and then he buried his face in Tom's ass, licked thickly, started worming his tongue inside, and Tom forgot how to even breathe.

By the time Greg was pushing slowly inside, having realigned to kneel behind him, pulling Tom up on his knees, Tom felt deranged. He was making fists in the sheets and he could hear himself sobbing and moaning but felt powerless to control it in any way. 

Then Greg pulled out and Tom didn't even have the time to protest before he pulled at him to roll over on his back, pushed his knees back, and Tom sat up on his elbows, and it was even more intense actually _seeing_ it, actually seeing Greg take himself in hand and Tom had the very distant thought _that's never going to work_ but then he was back inside and it was actually kind of easy and he raised himself up higher, spread his knees wider, trying to see Greg's dick slip in and out of him. 

“Touch yourself, okay, Tom?” Greg said and they were the first coherent words that had been spoken in a while and it took Tom's brain a little while to catch up but then he reached down, grabbed his dick and started stroking. Greg swore and hissed, and then he gasped and came, riding it out, his grasp hard on Tom's legs.

Tom whimpered, head falling backwards. Greg was still inside him, leaning up on his hands, breathing it out, just watching him now, and that gaze felt so heavy so as almost to be tangible, and then Greg said all softly, “come on, Tom, come on, fuck,” and then he did, fireworks going off on the inside of his eyelids. 

Tom opened his eyes, feeling absolutely shattered, his thighs trembling with exertion, and Greg just looked so fucking smug he kind of felt like punching him in the face.

“Get- get off, get off me,” Tom said breathlessly. “get me that towel.”

Greg grinned, picked up one of those thick luxurious towels and they made a real mess of it, cleaning up. Then Greg was lying close and his fingers were soft on Tom's face and he was kissing him again, shallow little kisses, but Tom was so exhausted he could barely manage to kiss back. 

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Huh? Like, who cares...” Greg looked around, saw a clock on the wall. “only like, three.”

“Only three.” He sighed. “Let's uh, let's go to sleep, okay?”

“One more thing? Just one.”

“It's Monday,” Tom whined. “you just fucked me into next week.”

“It'll take three minutes.” Greg leaned over, far, almost falling off the bed, rummaging, until he found what he wanted and came back to lie closely against Tom. He took one earbud and put it in his own ear and then gave the other to Tom, who put it in his a little sceptically.

“What's this?” Tom asked.

Greg scrolled through the iPod until he found what he wanted. Tom recognized the voice instantly.

_For you I was a flame, love is a losing game,_ Amy Winehouse sang through the earbuds and Tom sighed.

“Oh. This one's kind of sad though.”

“Nick Cave says all true love songs are sad,” Greg said. “he says love songs without ache or sighs are actually hate songs in disguise.”

“Okay, he sounds like a stoner. Friend of yours?”

Greg laughed. “I wish. No um, a musician. He did like a really good lecture on love songs a few years ago, I have it on CD. He says a real love song fills the silence between ourselves and God.”

“Too heavy for me,” Tom said tiredly, voice all rough.

“That's okay,” Greg said. “let's just listen.”

Tom shifted his arm to lie against the pillow so Greg could rest his head on it, his body flush to him, a seam of body heat between them. _Over futile odds, and laughed at by the gods / and now the final frame, love is a losing game_ Amy sang, into the silence.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a cold and chilly Monday morning and Tom felt like if he really concentrated, he could still feel the imprints of Greg Hirsch's lips on his mouth, his neck, his cheeks. (His ribs, his thighs, the tips of his fingers.) They'd said goodbye at the hotel, Tom had paid for another night promising he'd “think of something”, and he was on his way to the apartment he shared with Shiv, mentally preparing to call of their engagement. Man, how shitty was he? Breaking off an engagement after less than a week because he'd fallen in love with somebody else. But he had. And it had made him think of how different things were, with Shiv. They'd only been together a year and a half but they already acted like they'd been married for a decade and were only holding it together for the kids. They didn't even have kids, unless you counted Mondale, whom Shiv unfailingly referred to as “your dog”. True, things had been very exciting in the first flush of things – kind of like they were now, with Greg, Tom realized – but part of that excitement had also been kind of a danger. He'd thought of the way he'd given Greg an unspoken sort of control last night. It was like a trust fall, in a way, and not really something Tom was usually into. The last time he'd tried that with Shiv, on her request, he'd ended up with a black eye. But Greg had- Greg had really taken care of him, and god, if he was that careful with his body maybe that meant he'd be just as careful with his heart, which right now felt very raw and stupid and needy. 

Tom was a romantic. He was also aware he was a lot. He'd never really met that soulmate he'd thought he would when he was a teenager, someone who could match his intensity and his affection and his spontaneity beat for beat. At best, like with Shiv, those facets of his personality were patiently tolerated. But now Greg had turned up all wide-eyed and guileless and Tom felt he owed it to his younger self to go with it. Intellectually, he knew it was idiotic. He knew. 

He sighed, breathing in the chill air. He'd almost subconsciously elected to walk. He wouldn't walk all the way, to far for that, he'd hail a cab eventually, but he just felt like the air, the motion. His hands were deep in his coat pockets and his cheeks were cold. The shops were beginning to open their shutters, and Tom looked over, his face following the noise. A record shop. He walked inside, nodded at the guy at the counter.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi, ah, morning. Do you, do you have Amy Winehouse's CD?”

“Which one?”

“Ummm,” Tom said. “how many are there?”

“Just the two studio albums. You probably want the most recent one if you don't know,” the guy said affably, went over to flip through his shelves and pulled it out. “anything else I can do you for?”

“Yeah I-” Tom scrunched his face up a little. “I kind- I kind of want to buy a present for someone. Um, like, something meaningful, something he'll like, and music is kind of his thing. But- I don't know, it's stupid, he's probably forgotten a thousand times more about music than I'll ever know, and he uh he works in a record shop himself so...”

“What format is he into?”

“Huh?” Tom asked. 

“CDs, vinyls.”

“Oh uh – vinyl, I guess.”

The guy nodded, then went over to where their record players were. “This is a cleaning kit, it's really top of the range, I usually get by with cheaper shit but this is way better. Spare needles, he probably goes through them, I one hundred percent recommend these. Even though they're expensive they're the only kind I buy. They're ceramic. These work with most players but on the off chance they don't I'll give you a receipt, so he can exchange them.”

Tom grinned. “Do you gift wrap?”

*

Greg really hadn't meant to be like a creepy stalker dude or whatever, but he'd gotten kinda bored hanging out at the hotel even though the hotel was really fucking nice. Like it was cool at first, he'd gone down to the restaurant and had a super fancy breakfast, it wasn't even like a buffet he'd just sat down and a legit waiter had come over with a menu with like, choices. Then he'd gone back up to the room and jerked off thinking about Tom and like, how, he'd like, come undone for him last night and holy _shit_ , you know? Then he'd read the latest NME, which he'd picked up at the airport, but he'd already read it the day before so it wasn't that exciting. And then he'd gotten antsy. And then he'd thought about the stuff Tom had told him, about his grandparents or step-grandparents or whatever, and how their house was across the street from the best Italian restaurant in New York and he was going to take him there one day. Which, cool. Greg liked to eat.

There were computers at reception and Greg had just kind of idly entered the name of the restaurant into Google maps, found the address. And like, what was he supposed to do, just wait around in bed for whenever Tom needed him? Okay, not wholly unappealing as a concept, but whatever, he kind of wanted to check it out, just to see. And okay, when he'd got there, looking up at the neat, old school brownstone, he'd walked up the stairs and looked at the name on the doorplate just to see if it was the right one, but he hadn't like, planned on buzzing the doorbell, he'd planned on just walking away and maybe telling Tom, I think I passed your grandparents' house, I'm pretty sure I did, but then the door had suddenly opened and like a super short and super old little woman with glasses had peered up at him.

“Hello?” she had told him.

“Uh yes uh greetings! Um,” Greg said.

“What you want?”

“Uhh, like- uhh- oh, nothing, like, I uh I'm a friend? Of Tom's? And uh, he told me, um, like he grew up here, kinda, and I just thought, um,” Greg babbled.

The woman nodded, seemed to soften in the face even though she wasn't smiling, and jerked her head. “Tom be here soon. Come in.”

“Oh, oh that's alright, I think ahh,”

“Come, come, is nothing, is no problem.”

And she'd just walked inside and Greg wasn't sure what to do exactly except follow, so he had. An equally small and old man had looked up at them from his chair in the kitchen.

“Ma chi é?”

“Amico di Tommy,” the woman said. 

“Ahh. Hello, welcome.”

“Uh thank you, I am uh very honored to uh enter, your abode,” Greg said nervously. Three small dogs were rushing around his feet, yapping and getting up on their hind legs.

He sat down at the kitchen table, leaned down a little to pet the dogs. “They're uh, cute puppies!”

“Yes, stupid dogs,” the woman confirmed. She sat a tiny glass in front of him, then got two bottles out of the fridge, first poured from the one with a brown liquid and then from one with a white. She got a tiny teaspoon out but just as Greg was about to accept it from her she jerked it out of range before stirring the drink for him. “here, here you are. Drink.”

“Oh uhh, thank you,” Greg said. He tried it. It tasted like sweet, fat coffee. It was nice. “oh uh, yum! What, uh, what is it?”

“Just espresso, almond milk. Nothing. Good?”

“Yeah, great uh.”

*

Tom hadn't actually planned on visiting his grandparents. But he kind of felt like talking to his mom. Out of everyone, she'd been the least elated about his engagement to Shiv, and she might give him the reassurement he wanted that this was the right choice. So he'd sent her a message and she'd said she and Alberto were heading to his parents' house for lunch and why not join them and then they could talk after? He texted her from a cafe, sitting down for a coffee and some more soul searching, and even though he'd planned on going straight back to the apartment he decided he'd go to his grandparents' house instead. When he walked the bag with his new CD and his (slightly shoddily) wrapped gift for Greg knocked against his leg and he imagined Greg's face opening it. He hoped it would make him happy.

*

Shiv definitely did not intend on going anywhere except her apartment that day. She was exhausted from hanging out with her family all fucking weekend. But when Michelle, their dog/housesitter, told her mr Wambsgans was not in and had not been in for the last couple of days, she frowned. He'd told her he was back in New York. She rolled her eyes, realizing. She wasn't surprised he'd elect to go hang out with his grandparents, but she was surprised he wouldn't have taken Mondale with him. He treated that dog like a baby. 

She didn't really understand Tom's relationship with his family. She was jealous of it, in a way. It wasn't like she wasn't close with her own family, she was, but- not like them. They were all corny and liked to eat together like for no real reason and played _cards_ and got sort of pleasantly _drunk_ together on those overly sweet witches' brews Tom's grandma, sorry, his _nonna_ concocted. It was kind of part of Tom's appeal, the fact he liked his family so much. She wasn't exactly sure she wanted kids but she certainly hadn't written it off, and she knew if she were to have them she wanted it to be with someone involved and caring and loving. Tom would make a pretty great dad. But even so, she couldn't quite figure exactly _why_ he liked his family so much. His grandparents were two sullen Neopolitan imports whose main occupation in life was plying anyone in the vicinity with carbs, his mom was all pleasant and polite but still looked at Shiv like she wasn't quite good enough for her boy, which, you know, objectively, come _on_ , and his dad (well, his stepdad) was a sleazy lawyer who she'd caught checking out her ass more than once. Tom had really tried bringing her into the fold but she just wasn't interested in these people. Still, Tom loved them, and Tom loved hanging out with them, and if he wasn't at the apartment and he wasn't in Canada then he one hundred percent was in his grandma's kitchen eating. Weird he hadn't brought Mondale, is all.

She considered waiting for him. 

She considered texting him.

Then she thought, oh fuck it, and called a cab. Better rip the band aid off right away.


	10. Chapter 10

Tom jogged up the stairs to his grandparents' brownstone house, the one their son, the hotshot lawyer, had bought them. He got his morass of keys out and flipped over to the right one, locked himself in. 

“Ciao,” Tom called into the hallway, taking off his coat. He walked for the kitchen and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline when he realized that at the table, inbetween his nonna and his stepdad Alberto, was Greg. Greg looked a little contrite, bit his lip. 

Tom smiled a little maniacally, acknowledging the “hello Tommy”s, kissed his nonna's cheek when she got up and then took her seat, sitting next to Greg.

“What are you doing here a haa?” he asked in an overly friendly voice, trying not to sound as hysterical as he suddenly felt.

“Umm, like, I didnt' mean – I was just, like, passing, and I met your grandma, and she invited me, and uh”

Tom squeezed his eyes together. He had no idea what the fuck Greg had been doing skulking around his nonna's house, but he could believe him being kidnapped and plied with food if he'd copped to knowing Tom. 

“Maybe I should like go,” Greg said. “yeah, I think, I-”

“First eat lunch,” Tom's grandma said, almost affronted. “Tommy here, everything ready.”

Tom pressed his lips firmly together. Actually, maybe everybody meeting Greg was kind of fine. He'd shoo him out of there after lunch, and then he'd talk to his mom, and then- he'd think of the next thing he was going to do. Surreptitiously, under the table, he lightly touched Greg's thigh.

“Yeah, stay for lunch, Greg.”

“Okay,” Greg said, gently, smiling a little unsurely. “I mean, it does smell really good.”

Everyone cheered a little when Tom's grandma brought over the grand bowl of gnocchi sardi in tomato sauce, helping themselves, then they started passing around the parmesan grater. Greg looked at it like it was an alien contraption when Alberto gave it to him. Tom smiled.

“Here,” he said, reaching over. “you have to hold it steady here-” he tucked it into Greg's prosthetic - “and then you turn this... crank.” He touched his fingers, urging on, and Greg looked at him all, like, all adoring, and then he grinned big, all over his face, watching the shredded cheese fall from the grater. 

“Hey, it's working.”

“Of course it is, it's not rocket science, Greg. Here,” Tom said, drizzling his plate with a little olive oil, measuring with his thumb over the bottleneck, and then milling some black pepper on top. “now you get the full experience.”

Greg cautiously forked the gnocchi and tried it, then sighed. “Ohh, man. That is so good.”

“Good?” Tom's nonna said.

“Yeah like- really good. Excellent. How do you say it in uh, Italian?”

“Ottimo,” Tom prompted, grinning.

“Ottimo,” Greg repeated, nodding, and there were more approving noises, which were interrupted by the doorbell ringing. 

Tom's nonna got up again. When she returned she was not alone. Walking tall behind her- was Shiv.

She looked commanding and powerful in high heels, a burgundy blazer and checkered pants, wearing that slightly tired look she usually did around Tom's family, and then she stared. But not at Tom. She stared at Greg. Then she smiled.

“Oh my god, Greg? Cousin Greg?”

“Uh, Shiv, hey,” Greg said. “long uh time no see.” He got up and walked over and they hugged.

“Oh my god! Tom- Tom told me he couldn't convince you-” she narrowed her eyes at Tom, smiling, still holding onto Greg's arms. “is this your idea of a surprise? You dolt. What's wrong with you.”

Tom noticed his mother's smile tightening. He searched his brain for a single thing to say. 

“Sit down,” Tom's nonna said, offering a chair. “just in time, we eat.”

Shiv shook her head. “No, no thank you.” She sighed. “Tom, I have something important to tell you.”

“Uh, okay?” 

“Um, maybe we should-” she looked around. “maybe we should go somewhere private.” She jerked her head for the sitting room. 

“It's okay,” Tom said. “they'll all hear it soon enough anyway.”

“Ah, okay,” Shiv said, looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I'm going to have to call off our engagement, Tom.”

The pleasantly chattering kitchen went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. Tom's nonno looked up from where he was petting one of the dogs, Greg who was standing next to Shiv kind of looked away and stepped back, and Tom's mother muttered “oh holy buckets” through her teeth.

“ _What?_ ” Tom asked.

“Um, Tom-” Greg said and Tom raised a hand to shut him up, not looking at him.

Shiv sighed deep. “I'm really sorry, Tom. It's just, my dad, he... he doesn't... like you.”

“Disgraziato,” Tom's grandpa said, made a gesture. His grandma looked liked Shiv had just taken a shit on her carpet.

“And- and you know how we've been talking about- me maybe taking a bigger role? At Waystar? I mean, you know what he's like. That's just not going to happen if he's like, got it out for me. So... I'm just, I'm really sorry Tom, but I can't marry you.”

“You said you would,” Tom said, his voice going high, and he got up to walk over and face her. “you said you wanted to!”

“Geeze, Tom, it's not about that.”

“Like, Shiv, you're a grown woman with your own life and career,” Greg said. “why do you still let uncle Logan run your life?” 

“I'm not-” she looked a little flustered. “look, Tom, we can still be together, and who knows, maybe some time in the future- I mean, he's 80.” She made a face. 

Tom's mouth fell open. Then he started tugging his engagement ring off.

“Fine. Fine. Fine. It's off. It's done. It's over. Fine.”

“Tom-”

“No, it's fine, it's over, here, take- take your ring back-”

“Tom, you bought it yourself.”

“No, take it, take it,” he wrenched his ring off, then threw it on the floor, and it bounced and ended up somewhere underneath the kitchen table. There was a moment of total silence. Shiv crossed her arms. Then, Greg, quietly, squatted down, leaning on one hand, reached down underneath the table, fumbled a little, then re-emerged with the ring between thumb and forefinger.

“Like- can I borrow this?” he asked Shiv.

“It's his fucking ring!” Shiv huffed.

“Tom, can I?”

Tom scrunched his face up in confusion. “Yes?”

Greg grabbed a hold of the kitchen table to support himself and then got down on one knee, held the ring up.

“Greg?” Tom said, knitting his eyebrows together. Shiv frowned.

“Ummm Tom. Uh. Like, Tom, maybe you would like to marry me, instead?”

“What the fuck,” Shiv said.

Tom's mouth dropped open. “You're. Uh. Jesus, Greg.”

Greg bit his lip, still holding the ring up, looked a little unsure. “I mean- is that a no?”

Then Tom grinned, wide, shook his head. “It's. Yes. Yes, Gregory. I will.”

“Wait- _what_ the fuck?” Shiv asked again.

“Cool, cool,” Greg said, got up, then threaded the ring back on Tom's finger, smiled at him, looked like he held his breath a little bit.

“You serious?” Tom asked, still grinning.

“Yeahh,” Greg said. “fuck. Yeah, I am.”

Tom put both hand on Greg's face and pulled him down, kissed his lips brief then pulled away. Greg was grinning brightly at him, all uneven teeth, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

He swallowed looking over at the table where his family was sitting, all looking slightly shell shocked. Finally, his mom spoke.

“You love this boy, Tommy?”

“Yeah, mom,” Tom said, heard his voice go all quivery. “I'm ah- head over heels.”

“Oh honey,” she said. “you're in trouble.”

Tom nodded, looked up at Greg again. “You're probably right about that.”

“So when- how-” Shiv said.

“Shiv, sit down,” Tom's nonna said, nodding. “sit down, eat.”

“Are you serious right now?” she asked. ”My fucking cousin just proposed to my boyfriend!”

“All family,” she said, shrugging. “you don't want to marry Tom, somebody else does. He's a good boy.”

Shiv made a slightly incredulous expression, then she sighed very big, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Yeah, whatever, I need some fucking carbs.”

*

Tom ran his knuckles down Greg's chest, sighing. They were back at the hotel, Tom and Shiv had kind of politely agreed to meet up the day after and talk, and he'd gone with Greg back to The Regent, waiting for a panic attack which had yet to make an appearance. He was too happy. The way his family had just sort of – dealt, asked Greg all kinds of friendly questions, getting to know him, he just felt so lucky to have the family he had, to have Greg – the executive position at ATN he'd been aiming for felt pretty pathetic and small in comparison to all that. Maybe it would all come crashing down on him soon. Maybe he'd freak out, maybe he'd crawl on his hands and knees like a dog, begging Shiv's forgiveness. But it didn't feel like that at all right now.

“We'll have a long engagement, though, right?” Tom asked.

Greg shrugged, and Tom's hand, still idly playing on Greg's pale chest, rose with the movement. “I don't really care. We can do it tomorrow, down at City Hall. Or we can just be engaged forever. The thing is we like, we're together?”

“Heh. Oh. I nearly forgot. I got- I got you something.”

“What?”

Tom got out of bed, walked naked to where he'd flung down his stuff when they entered the room, picked up his bag from the record shop, then flopped down next to Greg again, shoulder to shoulder. He pulled out the CD. “Look, I got it.”

“Oh, nice.”

“And this... is for you.” He reached over, offered Greg the wrapped gift. “Call it an engagement gift.”

Greg grinned, surprised, leaned in for a short hug and then sat up, started unwrapping. Tom suddenly felt stupid. Some spare needles and a cleaning kit? What a lame fucking present. He should have thought of something better. Something really expensive. Something really impressive.

“It's really nothing,” he said, apologetically, sitting up, too. “it's a- I mean, it's a gesture-”

“Hooly shit!” Greg said, his mouth falling open a little. “Oh man! These are – fuuck, yeah, these are ceramic? Dude, the weight on these things? You can like- I fucking swear, you can hear the difference, like they reduce the fuck out of surface noise. I mean I just use plastic because these are kinda pricey but uh, holy fuck, I'm replacing them the second I get back, oh man. And- oh boy! A fucking nine piece kit! I know this brand, it's like, it's English? Shit, where did you buy this? Me and Donut have been trying to import their stuff but they're all like, uh, sorry, we don't have enough stock. Oh man, it's so _classy_ -” he chattered.

Tom scrunched his face up. “You like it?”

“I mean- I mean I love it, like, this is so thoughtful and it's so like nice and- oh, _Tom_.”

Greg leaned over, put both arms around him, kissed him. 

Tom pulled away a little, then leaned his forehead to Greg's. “Hey Greg? I've been thinking a little. I think I wouldn't mind relocating to Montreal. Not like my career at Waystar will be going anywhere now.” He pulled away to see Greg grinning all over his face. “You can get decent Italian food there, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moodboard by [van1lla-v1llain](https://van1lla-v1lla1n.tumblr.com/) 😍


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